The Hanged Man
by Osidiano
Summary: Manjoume reflects on the past only to decide that there is nothing there; he looks into the future and realizes that there has never been anything there. Fools and heroes may try to save him from his fate, but the truth is in the Tarot.


**Disclaimer/Notes:** I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh!: GX, or any of the characters here, unless otherwise mentioned. I do not own Kazuki Takahashi, and no money is being made off of this piece of fiction. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original ideas are original (duh) and belong to me, unless otherwise mentioned. This story takes place sometime after the end of season two, contains angst and character death, and **has not been beta'd**. Enjoy.

**The Hanged Man**

**  
**_He ties it in a careful knot, tugging harshly to test its strength._

Juudai had always been pulling or pushing Manjoume out of his comfort zone, and for some reason that the younger boy could only guess at, he always let the school's hero get away with it. While not exactly stable, per se, Manjoume's mental health had been fine until Juuadi arrived at Duel Academy—until they had dueled and the former Obelisk student had suffered such a humiliating defeat at the mercy of "one percent." It had all been downhill from there, really.

_Manjoume looks up at the rafters thoughtfully, reveling in the novelty and strangeness of silence. Tonight, there are no Ojamas to bother him, no Dark Scorpions to tease him. There is no crying spirit by his bedside, no miserable loser lamenting the weakness that led it to be discarded. For once, he is alone. And that is dangerous and makes his thoughts wonder in spiraling circles and odd, twisting shapes through the beauty of solitude._

It was hard to think back far enough to remember the days when hallucinations, laughing heads and "Gotcha" fingers, did not haunt him, when they did not chase him down the hallways. When he did not run from them, screaming and tearing at his face and hair. It was hard to think about the time before he had escaped the island in hopes of finding someplace where the nightmares could not follow. Was there really anything before Manjoume had gone to North Academy, before he had trekked across the many miles of that icy wasteland to reaffirm his identity as a true duelist?

Looking back, delving deep into that angry, fear-filled past, it was frightening to not know if those had really been better times, healthy days and "normal" nights. Had he ever had those?

_Manjoume shakes his head as if to clear it, closing his eyes. He slips the rope around his neck, and pulls it tight._

Perhaps if there was no past worth examining, there could have been a future. Surely, there was some fate predestined where he was superior and worthy of his own bluff. He had returned to Duel Academy to find just such proof of that possible future, knowing that he could not hide from Juudai forever.

Upon his return from North Academy, he had taken on the school's hero. His redemption match, the duel that was supposed to show the world his strength and conviction, had failed him. He had meant for them to know that he was not weak, he was not scared, and perhaps most of all, that he was not even a little bit crazy. But Juudai had only laughed and smiled and belittled his beliefs in front of an audience than he could not have managed to get without the Manjoume Group's support. Juudai made his own luck—_it was all in the hands—_and won and talked about having fun being so much more important than pride and personal worth.

Juudai had stood up for him then, when no one else would, because that's what heroes do, and he was just selfish enough to change out every card so that it all led back to him in the end.

_Manjoume scowls, opening his eyes and glaring distastefully at the rafters, as if perhaps they are to blame. He is balanced precariously on the top of the chair that he has dragged over from his desk, and he stands up taller than he has in a long time, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. He holds his breath._

Somehow, over the course of freshman year—between the ante duels and evil cultists and midterms and saving the world—Juudai had managed to drag him—kicking and screaming—into an awkward friendship, and no matter how loudly he protested, they both knew that, in the end, he kind of liked it. Because instead of fighting and struggling and getting stronger, Manjoume realized that he could simply follow and be accepted. He could do as he was told with a snide comment and dirty look instead of trying vainly to beat Duel Academy's golden boy.

And, after a while, the role of comedic sidekick began to look almost bearable: except for the spirits, the visions had all but stopped, and the voices had disappeared. There was no more laughter stalking him from class to class, no more hateful glares from students or shadows on the way to his room. So, maybe instead of skidding downhill out of control, he had simply hit a plateau where he was neither at the top nor the bottom. Manjoume was safely mediocre, protected by a net of low expectations that everyone else seemed to hold out for him in the event that he might actually work up the courage to try something that he would then—inevitably—fail to accomplish. Was that all that there would be to his future?

_ There is so much more to what he is and what he should be. There is the Hanged Man._

Saiou was not lying when He spoke of God and quoted Leviticus, when He told Manjoume about wasted martyrdom. He was not making idle gypsy fortunes when He played His cards and explained the Tarot and the way that the Wheel turned. But now there was no rebirth to be had. There was only the sword to die by, plunged deep into his back during that fateful reading in the woods. Falling had felt like silence did now, like bleeding out with no hope of rising again. The choices he had made after the defeat of the White Order all led back to that branch, to that rotting indecision that Saiou had warned him of.

_ He steps off, the chair topples over, and he hangs, suspended between the heaven and the earth, the way that he knows that he is meant to._

He has always been the Hanged Man. There was no way to escape this fate. This was all that was left for him to do. There was no faith left, no scripture that he could recite to blind him to the pain. This was the only thing that he could bring himself to do without disappointment.

_ The door opens to reveal the hero, whose smile falls and eyes go wide. Juudai releases the knob numbly, staring as if—somehow—he does not understand what he sees._

_ They watch each other in silence as Manjoume swings slowly, choking and struggling against the biting rope—God, he cannot breathe, and it hurts and he can feel the bruises forming, but he almost does not care. It is worth it to see that helpless, confused expression on the hero's face; it is enough to watch him watch—not knowing what to do or how to save him. There are no lost words thrown out into the tense air between them, because there is no message to convey and no meaning to fumble._

_ And Manjoume just smiles, because in the end, there are no heroes in the Tarot._


End file.
